The Peacekeeper's Son
by whisperingwind64
Summary: This story takes place in District 3 in the first Hunger Games book. The day of the Reaping is approaching, and a deep, dark secret pushes main character Rina Orton to volunteer as tribute for the Games. But things don't turn out as expected...
1. Chapter 1

I trudge down the alley, kicking discarded chips and wires out of my path. That's what you get behind abandoned factories where only the occasional family lives now. Abandoned factories, where anything can happen. An abandoned factory, where I just left.

They say life is supposed to be glorious, being beside the Capitol, neighboring their people. But what's the difference, really? Here in District 3? Nothing. Even the number system of the Godly skips us. Everybody who's anybody knows about the Careers; the people who are from the districts cherished by the Capitol; the people who gladly train their kids to become tributes for their slaying. Districts 1, 2, and 4. But where's 3? See? Nobody cares about us.

We here in 3 have our fair share of torment and misery; people hungry, people dying - people being executed by electrocution for stealing food. That's what our district's made for, isn't it? Electricity. Yeah. Our own products are made to kill us off.

I, meanwhile, am being killed off by something else. As I slog past the old gray and blue buildings; all these thoughts scattering through my head; something else weighs on my mind. I pick at my shirt, unbuttoned and ripped inside out. My hair looks as though I myself have been given an electric shock.

Who will believe me?

No one. Of course, nobody will listen, because he is the son of a Peacekeeper. Important. Official. A keeper of Peace. And men who enforce peace don't…well, they don't let their sons do what just happened.

What does it matter? I say to myself. I turn right at the upcoming crossway and make due for the more inhabited outskirts of town. What does it matter?

At the main sidewalk, I begin to slow my pace. Home isn't that far away now. And I'm not sure I really want to be there. Not sure I'm ready. Do I have to go home? Can't I just run away?

Mom is opening the door. I can see her a couple dozen yards away, brushing out the dust and grime of the shoe store we own.

Tomorrow is the Reaping.

My mind isn't spinning anymore. I've figured it out. Tomorrow is the Reaping. Tomorrow is the day. The day all the children of 3 will fall victim and stand vulnerable before the town square, wondering and praying that their name is not chosen from the glass ball. The Reaping, where a boy and girl tribute will be chosen for the Games.

And the Reaping, where I am going to be that girl.

Yes, I will be that girl; because I'm going to volunteer.


	2. Chapter 2

As I wake from my slumber, I shiver. The dreams I had weren't very pleasant; they involved me screaming, crying. They involved my laying on the ground, unable to move…

"Rina?" My mom holds out a plate of chopped sausage and bread, waiting for me to sit up and grab it. When I sit up and don't, she places it on my lap. The meal is special. We don't normally get meat. "You need to eat. You'll need your energy."

Energy? To do what? Face Lyla Rions, the district 3 escort, as she stands on that stage, bopping around in her blue wig with ecstasy? Ok, I change my mind. I will definitely need the energy.

I know my mom cares about me, but she tends to show it _too much_. She tries _too hard. _I love her, don't get me wrong, but sometimes I wonder what it would be like if I had a sister, if she had another daughter. I have two brothers; Amos and Drey; but Drey is 19, so he is safe from the Reaping, and Amos is strong, very strong. He wouldn't have any problem fighting in the arena.

I, on the other hand, am a 15-year-old girl, someone who lacks in muscles and stature, someone who doesn't use their voice- And definitely not someone who could make it through a day in the wilderness with everyone out to kill her. Add onto that, I'm my mom's only daughter.

This is why there are deep lines of worry etched into her face.

That is why I immediately feel very guilty and more sick to my stomach than I've ever been. Not just because I know I'm going into the arena, but because of the reasons why.


	3. Chapter 3

I'm sure district 3 never saw this coming. We rarely get volunteers, especially not girl volunteers. And especially not small, slightly famished shopkeeper's daughters as volunteers. So Lo and behold, today will be a day of change. Standing in the crowd of children in the Town Square, lined up by age, I let my rage consume me.

Why not do it? I ask. There's nothing stopping me. There's nothing telling me no.

…_no_. The darkness floods me all over again and I freeze in place. _No._

"_NO!" The girl slams into the ground, panicking. She tries to get back up, but it's impossible. He has his hands on her shoulders and he's holding her there._

"_NO!" She says again, but he won't listen. She's crying, tears gushing down her cheeks, but he doesn't care. And besides, there's nobody there to listen, nobody there to see. He's on top of her now, pressing all of his weight against her fragile body. He's taking off her clothes. He's pulling off his. The girl struggles with everything she has; she tries to push him off, she tries to move away, but it's worthless. He's winning. He has his target and he won't let loose until he's scored._

_Her arms lay helpless behind her head as the boy engages in the act, hurting her, hurting her so much that she just wishes she could die._

_And then he's up, fastening his pants, nonchalantly walking out of the west entrance._

"Kalista Fayton!" Lyla calls out, holding a strip of paper. There is a hush over the crowd. In the silence, you can hear the occasional moan and weep of sorrow. Far off to the right, 17-year-olds move out of the way to let brown-haired, teary-eyed Kalista through. She begins to walk toward the stage, quiet, scared.

"I volunteer!" I shout. My shout rings and echoes through the square. People turn to look in my general direction, trying to figure out who said this.

"I, Rina Orton, volunteer to be tribute for the Games."

Confusion. Puzzlement. No one understands this turn of events.

So I move forward. I can only imagine the look on my mother's face… or on Amos's, or Drey's. I can only imagine the look on the face of Sera, my closest friend. Of Net, the lady who owns the bakery shop next door. Of the other 15-year-olds standing around me – I'm not looking at them, or anybody for that matter. And I can only imagine the reaction on the face of the demon who hurt me and stole any last bit of innocence I had.

As I cross to the stage, I'm thinking this is it. This is my death sentence. My suicide. Of course I don't stand a chance in the arena, of course I'm too weak to live. That's why I'm choosing to go. If the Hunger Games are a way for the country to punish its people, why not let it take MY life? Why not go ahead and die? I could be saving somebody's life. I just spared somebody's life. Because I'm choosing to die, someone else can live.

Oh shut up Rina, you're just trying to trick yourself in believing you're not selfish.

I'm on the stage. Despite hesitation, the crowd breaks out into applause.

Heck, I don't even have to let someone kill me. I can just do the job myself. Find a sharp rock. Take an axe from the cornucopia. Slash myself with it on live TV.

I'm just now imagining all the possible ways I could make a riot of my suicide across the nation when the boy's name that Lyla just called out finally registers in my brain.

"Jarin Weathries".

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

That's my heart. Here's my breath lunging out of my nose as I try to keep my balance and gather my senses. My chest is on fire. I have a headache. I'm getting nauseous. I'm getting dizzy.

"…Our male and female tributes for the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games!"

The crowd claps some more. I just stand there, staring. At him. The boy who has been chosen to go into the arena with me. The boy who will share a mentor with me, a chariot with me. The boy who is the son of a Peacekeeper…

He looks me in the eyes. What is that I see in _his_? A gleam of humor? Hostility? Triumph?

"You may now shake hands."

…The boy I hate.


End file.
